Her breakfast complete, Edith sat back in the chair and dabbed her mouth on the linen napkin, her hard black eyes fixed on the pair of Spode urn-shaped pot-pourri vases which stood alone on the windowsill, so as to bring all eyes to them. But today her possession of the fine porcelain gave her none of the normal satisfaction, in fact she didn’t even see the vases.
She hadn’t been able to believe what John had related last night. That Art and Gladys had allowed Dan to bring that girl – that whore’s ragamuffin brat – into their home as a guest was beyond the bounds of comprehension. Of course Gladys was a low, raucous-mouthed woman, likely she had seen a kindred spirit in the Bell creature. She hadn’t forgotten or forgiven her daughter-in-law’s attitude that Sunday in October over the accident in the mine at Sengenhydd in the Aber Valley. Gladys raising her voice to her like that – virtually shouting – and just because she had said that the explosion and fire which had taken the lives of over 400 men was a natural hazard and to be expected. Of course there was a whole branch of Gladys’s family that were miners and so she was bound to blame the employers and mineowners; she would never rise above her squalid beginnings, that one. But Gladys, common and unrefined as she was, was one thing. Connie Bell was quite another. She couldn’t bear, couldn’t bear to think of Dan touching that. . . that contaminated person.
Edith admitted to herself that she had been foolish, very foolish, to react as she had on Christmas Day. Of course it was John’s fault springing it on her like that and she had told him so, but knowing Dan as she did – his penchant for the underdog and overdeveloped social conscience – she should have played it differently. She sat forward in her chair again, biting her lip with vexation.
She knew the Rotheringtons had expected Dan to be present last night, and if they were to catch any whisper of him consorting with the likes of Connie Bell. . . She stood, her lips folding into a thin line. Something must be done, and at once. Somehow her methodical, well-organised plans had gone haywire and things were getting swiftly out of hand. And she wouldn’t have it. She wouldn’t tolerate this.
The first step would be to make discreet enquiries as to how her letter had been received by the management of the Grand Hotel, and what they intended to do about the trollop they had working for them. Of course the manager was a man. Edith’s eyes narrowed. And he may well be the sort of individual who thought with a lower part of his anatomy than his brain when it came to creatures like the Bell chit. Edith made no apology in her mind for the vulgarity, and it didn’t occur to her that the lady she now professed to be would not have thought in such a way.
But pressure could be brought to bear, she told herself tightly. She wanted Connie Bell dismissed, and she would also keep a careful eye on the baggage to make sure she didn’t acquire another post like assistant housekeeper. John would come in useful there. She wouldn’t rest until that girl was back where she belonged, in the gutter, and Dan saw the daughter of Sadie Bell for what she was: the cunning, conniving little madam.
But her enquiries would have to wait until tomorrow. Edith walked to the door and opened it quietly. She was hosting the New Year luncheon for the Christian Women’s Guild of Fellowship – a society drawn from the town’s most influential women which had first begun in 1895 when the Sunderland Daily Echo had run an appeal to ‘Feed the Poor Bairns’, and the money raised had provided breakfasts for the town’s poor school children – and she wanted to make sure Kitty had the five-course menu under control. The luncheon had been held at the Rotheringtons’ last year and they had a cook and a maid. However, there had only been four courses and one of those had been a somewhat uninteresting soup.
Edith stepped into the hall, taking a few moments to adjust the blooms in the large flower display standing on a small, walnut veneered table enhanced by herringbone inlays, either side of which stood a pair of superb Queen Anne chairs. Once the roses were to her liking she raised her eyes and glanced around the beautifully decorated surroundings. Her Dan with the scum of the streets! Never. Never would she allow such an abomination. She would rather see him dead first.
It was almost eight o’clock in the evening and it had been a long, long day. Connie had just been checking the clean linen in the laundry room – normally her last job of the day – but she had been drawn to the sashed window in the last few moments, where a border of snow was mounting against the bottom pane. It had been snowing all afternoon, and would be quite deep again by now. She stared out into the whirling thick flakes, her hands full of fluffy white towels, the weariness of a heavy day following the emotional turmoil of the evening before and then a sleepless night evident in her bowed shoulders.
What was Dan doing right at this moment? Was he thinking of her? Had he thought of her at all today or had he determined to put her out of his mind following the scene of last night? Men were different to women with regard to emotion, she knew that. They were more logical, sensible she supposed, their codes and values were tied up with the head more than the heart. And yet. . . She didn’t feel Dan was like that.
Oh don’t talk daft! It was sharp and irritable. How on earth did she know what Dan Stewart was like? Here she was yammering on like a whining bairn and about someone who was virtually a stranger. Where had all her gumption gone?
She found out where it was in the next second when the door to the laundry room opened and Colonel Fairley stepped furtively inside, his manner changing once the door was shut behind him and he saw her standing with her back now to the window.
‘There you are, m’dear.’ He was smiling as he approached her. ‘I thought I might find you in here.’
Colonel Fairley! This was all she needed. When she had arrived at the hotel that morning it was to learn the Colonel had left a few minutes earlier to spend the day with an old army colleague, and Connie had been hoping she could escape without seeing him. Even after a good night’s sleep when she was bright and breezy the Colonel was hard to take, but right at this moment. . . ‘Colonel Fairley.’ Connie forced herself to speak quietly and firmly and she didn’t return his smile. ‘Is anything wrong? Do you need fresh towels or bed linen? I thought the housemaid had seen to all that this morning.’
‘No, it’s nothing like that, m’dear. Wanted a little word, don’t you know. Something to your advantage if you get my meaning?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
Her body was like a ramrod now. He was close, too close, and she could smell whisky on his breath.
‘Thing is, m’dear, you’ve got to tread carefully. They’re on to you.’
‘On to me?’ She didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about, and her bewilderment must have shown in her face because he said, his voice overly surreptitious, ‘Harold, m‘dear, Harold. He knows. Had a letter – anonymous of course – but I fancy you’ve upset one of your gentlemen friends, eh? But I’m broad-minded. You’re a working girl when all’s said and done.’
She stared at him, her magnificent blue eyes open wide, and as the blood surged in his body and desire made him hard, he said thickly, ‘Don’t play games, m’dear. No need for that with old Fairley. I’ll treat you right, always have done with me fillies in the past.’
Connie ignored this, along with the sickening panic that was knotting her stomach, and said, ‘Colonel Fairley, you have been misinformed in some way. I have no gentlemen friends, none, and I have done nothing wrong.’
‘That’s what I told Harold so don’t worry, you’re quite safe. Got him to burn the damn thing, all right? And like I said, I’m broad-minded, I don’t mind. Had all sorts, don’t you know. Travelling the world like I have you can’t stand on ceremony.’ His tongue curled out, moistening his lips. ‘Now you just be kind to old Fairley, eh? ’Cause I’ve been kind to you, m’dear. Don’t want you upset, do we.’
He was between her and the door and she would never make it past him by brute force. He was a stocky man, solid. Connie took a deep breath and said as coldly as she could, considering the state of her quiver
ing insides, ‘Colonel, I don’t know what this letter said but I can assure you if any allegations were made of an improper nature they are absolutely without foundation. Now if you don’t mind I have things to do before I leave.’
What was this? She was trying to wriggle out of it now, was she? And after all he had done for her. Poor dos – this wasn’t playing the game at all, but then what could you expect from her class. Didn’t know the meaning of the word gratefulness, any of ’em. ‘Now look here, m’girl, I’ve played fair with you and I expect it to be appreciated. And I’m a generous man, I’m very generous. You do right by old Fairley and he’ll do right by you. Understood?’
Connie’s face was scarlet now and her nails were digging into the palms of her hands as she warned herself not to go for him. She couldn’t win in a fight with this man, she had to talk her way out of this room. ‘I don’t mean to be unappreciative,’ she said stiffly, ‘but all I can say is that this letter seems to have been a pack of lies and it’s given you quite the wrong impression.’
‘Is that so?’ Now his whole manner was insulting as he leant slightly forward, his body almost touching hers as he said, ‘So your mother wasn’t a fille de joie, is that what you are saying? A harlot? A whore?’ And as her face spoke for her, ‘I thought so. Well, my money is as good as the next man’s, m’dear.’
‘How dare you.’ All pretence at reasonable persuasion was gone as Connie shouted at him. ‘You get out of here, you disgusting man.’
‘Disgusting?’ The Colonel blocked her path as she made to push round him and he swore, the profanity of the most base kind, before he pushed her back against the wall causing her head to crack with a resounding thud against the window. And then he slapped her, very hard, across the face.
It was so unexpected and so shocking that for a moment Connie was frozen, the towels scattered about her feet, but then as she felt his hands tearing at the bodice of her dress she opened her mouth to scream, only to find herself felled to the floor as he hit her again. And then he was on top of her and the wind was completely knocked out of her, and his hand was across her mouth clamping it shut.
The buzzing and whirling in her head told her she was on the verge of fainting and she knew she mustn’t; all hope would be gone then and he would have her, like this, on the floor.
He was muttering to himself, one hand still over her mouth and the other struggling to hoist up her dress and petticoat, and his gasps were saying, ‘Ten a penny, your sort, ten a penny. Been at it for years I don’t doubt, and you try to come the innocent with old Fairley. Take me for a fool would you. Would you?’
And then her skirt was up over her thighs, and she felt his hand roughly probing at the mound between her legs and she felt she would die, that nothing that could happen to her would ever be as bad as this. She could feel his hot mouth at her breast where her clothes were gaping wide, and as a consuming revulsion filled her it enabled her to gather every last shred of strength left in her body and bring her knee up with all the force she could muster into Colonel Fairley’s groin.
His groan was long and high and he twisted on her, his hands coming up between his legs, causing the breath to further leave her body, but she knew she hadn’t a second to lose. She heaved and pushed him off her, crawling to one side as he continued to whimper, his head bent to his knees, and then she was standing up and the door handle was in her fingers. She felt sick, so sick. She wrenched open the door and staggered into the deserted corridor beyond, her senses swimming from the ravenous assault but the need to put some distance between herself and her attacker paramount.
‘Connie?’
The relief of seeing and hearing Mary brought the feeling of faintness strongly again, but she fought it with all her might, sinking down on to the floor but keeping her head up and taking great gulps of air in-between gasping, ‘He. . . Colonel Fairley. . . he tried to . . . in there.’
‘Oh, lass, lass.’ Mary was on her hunkers at Connie’s side with her arms tight round her, and Connie’s shaking was vibrating through both of them. ‘I’ve got you, lass, I’ve got you. You’ll be all right. Connie, Connie, come on, lass.’
‘Mary . . . he tried to. . .’
‘I know, lass, I know. You were late, it’s gone eight, an’ so I come lookin’ for you, an’ one of the lasses tipped me the wink that Mrs Pegg had told the Colonel he might find you in there. Give him her keys so I understand tell, ’cos he said he wanted a private word with you afore you went home, but she knew what he was about all right. Didn’t know Violet had her lugs flappin’ though, did she, the rotten old sow.’
‘Oh, Mary.’
‘Did . . . did he. . . ?’
‘No.’ And then more strongly, ‘No, no he didn’t. But. . .’
‘I know, lass, I know.’
‘He . . . he was so strong.’
‘Aye, they are, lass. The blighters are.’
And then the murmurings were cut off as Colonel Fairley appeared in the doorway, his face beetroot red but his clothing in place. He stood there for a second watching them as they sat huddled together on the floor some two or three yards away but he said not a word, turning and stumbling down the corridor in the opposite direction and disappearing out of sight.
‘Help me up, Mary.’
Once on her feet Connie’s shaking and the extent of her dishevelment became more obvious, and as Mary attempted to fasten the few remaining buttons that were left on her bodice, Connie stood breathing deeply, trying to control the tremors, before she said, ‘He . . . he said Mr Alridge had received a letter, a nasty letter that wasn’t signed, Mary. He knew about. . . about my mam. Who would do something like that?’
‘I don’t know, lass, but the so-an’-so wants stringin’ up. Here.’ Mary had been dressed ready for the outdoors, and now she pulled her woollen shawl from under her coat, wrapping it round Connie as though she were a child. ‘That’s better, lass, no one would know now. You can’t see where the buttons are off.’
‘My . . . hair.’
The normally neat, shining bun was hanging in tangled golden coils down her back – the pins scattered all over the laundry room floor – and although Connie tried to tidy it, her hands were trembling so much she was making it worse. Again Mary provided the answer, taking most of the pins out of her own hair and fixing Connie’s, before bundling her brown locks back under her green felt hat.
‘We’ll go out the back way, lass, an’ if you wait near the cold store I’ll get your things.’ Mary took Connie’s arm, her voice low and encouraging as though she were dealing with an injured child or a fragile invalid.
‘Go?’ Connie had begun to walk along the corridor with her friend, but now she jerked to an abrupt halt. She stared into Mary’s concerned face before she said, her body shuddering but her voice flat, ‘I’m not going anywhere, lass, not until I’ve seen Mr Alridge or Lucy. I want something done about this, he’s not getting away with it.’ She raised her hands to her aching face, the heat from her burning skin telling her she was going to be black and blue in the morning. ‘He hit me and he tried to force me, those are the plain facts.’
‘Aye, I know, lass, I know. But. . .’
‘What?’
‘It’s Colonel Fairley, isn’t it, an’ he’s related to the Alridges.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Connie was wondering why she didn’t want to cry. She was shaking all over, she didn’t seem to be able to stop the quivering that was turning her bowels to water and sending her muscles into spasm, but there was a strange numbness where there should have been tears. Was that shock? She had heard people talk of shock before. Was that what this was? Whatever it was, she blessed it. Tears could come later.
‘Oh, lass, you know as well as I do, now then. He’s a guest here an’ he’s gentry. They won’t take your part against him what with –’ Mary stopped suddenly, aware she was in danger of being unforgivably tactless. But it was too late.
‘What with knowing about my mam?’ For a moment Con
nie’s head drooped and then she forced it up with savage determination. If Mary could say that, Mary her friend who was closer than a sister and who knew more about her than anyone else in the world, then what would the others say? What Mary was implying was that Mr Alridge and Lucy, and anyone else who heard about this, would assume she had led the Colonel on, that she had invited him to . . . Like mother, like daughter. Brazen huzzies, the pair of them. Bad blood outs. Oh aye, she could hear them. She had already been labelled an upstart, even by the staff who liked her, she knew – she wasn’t stupid. And human nature being what it was this would make the gossip all the more vicious.
So what should she do? Keep quiet and put it down to experience? Be grateful that he hadn’t actually managed to take her down?
She’d rather put her head in the gas oven!
‘I’m going to report him, Mary.’
‘You can’t, lass, listen to reason. You’ve worked so hard to get where you are now an’ you’ll never get another job like this one. An’ they won’t give you a reference, not if you go with a cloud over your head.’
‘Everyone knows what the Colonel’s like.’
‘Whey aye, they do, but they won’t stick their nebs out for you an’ you know it.’
‘I don’t care.’ Connie crossed her forearms tight against her waist, the marks of the Colonel’s hands standing out in vivid contrast against the lint whiteness of the rest of her face.
‘Aye, you do, an’ you’re not like them with a pretty face an’ nowt up top either. Least said, soonest mended. It might stick in your craw – it sticks in mine an’ all if you want to know – but it’s best in the long run.’
‘Best for whom?’ Something was happening to the numbness. She had never felt so alone in her life, not even when she had first heard the news about her granny and Larry, or last night when John Stewart had treated her as less than the muck under his boots. But she couldn’t give in to the weakness that had her wanting to run away and hide like a small wounded animal. She couldn’t. She’d never be able to look at herself in the mirror again. Colonel Fairley had assumed she was a common strumpet, and if she didn’t say something it would be like agreeing with what that letter had said about her mam, about them both. It must have been bad, awful, for the Colonel to presume he could crook his little finger and she’d come running.
Ragamuffin Angel Page 23
